


as always and forever

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Comfort/Angst, Danger Night, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Happy Ending, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Sherlock is too deep in his mind palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 18:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: Danger nights are not the same anymore, because Sherlock has a lifejacket. A lifejacket that tastes like tea, that has the texture of a beige jumper and smells inexplicably like a common brand of shampoo with a hint of cedar. A lifejacket that has the exact color of John’s eyes: deep blue, with a hint of grey on rainy days.





	as always and forever

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot ficlet since I wanted to explore how John and Sherlock would cope together on danger nights even after having established their relationship. Nothing too fluffly nor too angsty, the tone is mostly melancholic with a happy ending. 
> 
> I wrote it with a lyrical/poetic style as an exercise but do keep in mind that I am not a native English speaker, so sorry for any mistakes that have slipped in there!
> 
> There is also a bit of smut at the end, but nothing too graphic, so I only tagged it as Mature (sorry if it's the wrong tag for the actual content, I'm still trying to figure that out.) 
> 
> I might make "as always and forever" my collection of Johnlock ficlets, we'll see if I write more of them.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Danger nights are not the same anymore. There are no more drugs to be taken, no more cigarettes to be lighted, no more fights to be fought. It is all about hours passing by in an unwavered silence, a bit like being alone at sea, not so much drowning than slowly drifting away.

Danger nights are not the same anymore, because Sherlock has a lifejacket. A lifejacket that tastes like tea, that has the texture of a beige jumper and smells inexplicably like a common brand of shampoo with a hint of cedar. A lifejacket that has the exact color of John’s eyes: deep blue, with a hint of grey on rainy days.

Tonight, John goes to bed first. He closes his book swiftly, yawning in the process. His eyes wander from the not-so-bright fire burning between them to his companion’s concentrated traits. He knows that he is far deep in a land unknown to him, in the labyrinth of his own mind, hands clasped in front of him as if praying to find kinder territories tonight.

Sherlock has been silent for three hours and fifty-seven minutes. John counted. He certainly will not be staying around for the fourth hour, that might go on a fifth, on a sixth and on and on until the early hours of the morning. By now, he is accustomed to it, and tries not to worry. Mind palace sessions are often long and uninteresting, but he knows that tonight it is something different. John can see it on Sherlock’s face when it is a danger night, when he has wandered too deep and for too long. He tries to convince himself that Sherlock will be all right, that he will come back when he needs to. He fails to.

John mumbles something about going to bed. It happens from time to time - that he goes to sleep before Sherlock - and usually he does not dwell much on it. Although tonight he would like to be reassured. He would like to feel the warmth of another human body against him, to know that his companion is there, present with him as always and forever. Sometimes, even after all this time, he doubts.

Danger nights are often a two-tickets ride.

Instead, he ventures towards the bedroom. John takes the time to wash, to contemplates himself reluctantly in the mirror, to note any damage that has been done by the hours, minutes and seconds passing by at an alarming pace. It is the price to pay for happiness, John tells himself, and wonders why he is unhappy tonight.

Not unhappy, he reminds himself. No, unhappiness had plagued him in the past and tonight must not be labeled this way. John does not quite know how to name it, though, and without further thought, he lies down in bed. Is it melancholy?

When everything is divided between two people who love each other, maybe unhappiness is only another word for isolation.

John turns his head on his pillow. He knows that Sherlock has probably not heard him saying goodnight, and so he tries to get himself used to the idea of the empty space beside him that remains painfully cold.

Suddenly, he fells the mattress dipping as Sherlock takes his rightful place beside him. John’s heart aches a bit in his chest. He wonders why he did not hear him in the bathroom and concludes that he himself was drifting a bit too far away.

Danger nights are not so much about touching, John knows, and that is why he had not kissed Sherlock goodnight as he usually does. He does not pry, he does not talk, he does not touch. He is simply there, breathing in and out, waiting for the tide to lower enough.

Moments later, Sherlock shifts his hand on the mattress, in the space between their bodies, as an offering.

Slowly, as he lets out a sigh he had kept in too long, John takes his hand.

Sherlock shivers a bit under the touch, yet no words are exchanged. They lie there for a moment before John moves his arm and places Sherlock’s hand on his chest, above his heart, still holding it. ( _Lifejacket_.)

Sherlock listens closely. Without thinking about it, he takes John’s pulse: fifty-five beats per minute, which is normal for a well-fit man of his age, although he noticed a slight elevation when his hand had landed upon the spot.

In silence, Sherlock listens to John’s heart, and John to Sherlock’s breathing, constantly reminded of each other’s presence. ( _I am here, you are not alone_.)

Sherlock moves in closer a plants a kiss on John’s bare shoulder, nuzzling his head in his neck. He rests there for a moment, as defenseless as a bird that fell out of its nest. John hums, and Sherlock moves a bit down to kiss the old scar that had once brought a soldier home. ( _Like a bird that fell out of its nest_.)

There is a muffled moan that echoes deep where tongue touches skin. John shifts in the bed, makes Sherlock fall on his back, planting kisses down his throat to the collarbone. There is a questioning look in John’s gaze that Sherlock nods away, and soon clothes slide down onto the floor. Then it is skin against skin, finally.   

There is a real intimacy in that, John muses. Not only in the physical contact, but in the act of finding each other in that way on a danger night. Love stays, even on bad days. And that is more than enough.

There is a bit of fumbling around, the nightstand stays open and an uncapped bottle drips on the mattress.

At first, it is slow and languid and mostly silent but it is like finding home again. ( _Finally_.) It is never really the same, but tonight there is no hurry. Eyes lock unto each other, and sentences are exchanged without actual words. Sherlock finds his thoughts wandering away and so he digs his fingers in John’s back. ( _Lifejacket, lifejacket, lifejacket._ ) He still feels tense and not fully aware but each time John moves Sherlock is constantly dragged down to earth as if a buoy had been attached to his ankle. It’s pulling, and pulling, and pulling while each wave drives him further from the shore. He tries to find salvation in John’s mouth but the oxygen he needs is lost somewhere between their lips. Sherlock feels water closing around him, surrounding him as he fights back to stay at the surface. He tries to resist it, he truly does, but John finds his ear and whispers:

“I’ve got you. You can let go, now.”

Water submerges him like a full-blown tsunami, and for a split second everything goes quiet.

John lets the wave take him over, too, in the end.

He falls on top of Sherlock and finds himself kissing him again when he is conscious enough to do so. He takes another moment or two before properly pulling out, simply because he likes being there, and rolls on his back taking Sherlock in his arms.

He closely inspects John’s face, his long finger tracing a circle on a precise point on his jaw.

“You’ve missed a spot,” he huffs, to which John replies:

“You’re back.” But this time it comes with a truthful smile and a invisible swelling to his heart.

Sherlock moves a bit, nuzzling into the crook of John’s neck, where it is still warm and a bit sweaty and simply _good_. “You brought me back,” he whispers.

No, danger nights are not the same anymore, John reflects. It is bound to happen from time to time. The sea is still there, tumultuous and possessive, yet the outcome is terribly different when one carries a lifejacket.

Slowly, they drift away to sleep – together, as always and forever.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. I am weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr. :)


End file.
